


'Dream' Can Be A Twelve-Letter Word

by DPPatricks



Series: Stories from scripts [1]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:41:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25976095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPPatricks/pseuds/DPPatricks
Summary: Starsky and Hutch chase and arrest a drug dealer but, unbeknownst to them, the dealer has managed to stash most of his product, which falls into the hands of ten-year-old Randy Drake. The following three days are the some of the most tense the partners have ever known.
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson/David Starsky
Series: Stories from scripts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885522
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	'Dream' Can Be A Twelve-Letter Word

**Author's Note:**

> My muses seem to be on vacation so I'll be cross-posting for a while. This one is from Flamingo's Archive.net and was first posted in August of 2016, shortly after I found S&H fandom.  
> I wrote the script from which this story is adapted in May, 1978. One of my first efforts at writing fanfiction, it has been slightly edited for this posting.

It is daytime in the warehouse district of Bay City, an area of low, large buildings, narrow streets and lots of alleys, where almost every vehicle is a 10-ton truck. One of the exceptions is the Torino, partially obscured behind a few parked trailers, in a somewhat-less-trafficked area of the district.

Inside, Starsky and Hutch, in their accustomed places, exhibit attitudes of alert boredom. They’ve been here waiting for someone, or for something to happen, for quite some time. They’re silent because evidently everything of import has already been discussed and they’re comfortable with the quiet. But they simultaneously sit up ‘on point’ as they see a man come into view in the distance. This figure stops at the corner of a building, looking carefully all around. ‘Boredom’ for the two detectives is gone and ‘alert’ has become ‘ready.’

The figure is Lloyd Lester Johnson, black, 25, pusher, dealer, general all-around sweetheart, and right now, wanted on suspicion of murder. He’s casually dressed but, even so, seems badly out of place in these surroundings: he’s more used to, and comfortable in his up-town milieu of flash and flesh. But Lloyd has come up the hard way and still remembers how to deal on the street level when he has to, which is apparently now. His background and current status with the police make him cautious to a fault. Satisfied with his initial inspection of the area he moves slowly and easily to a spot near the mouth of a narrow alley.

Starsky and Hutch get silently out of the Torino and begin to move into position to bracket Johnson: Starsky goes left, behind cover so that he’ll come in on Johnson’s right, a slightly longer route than Hutch, who moves down the street and across, to come in on Johnson’s left.

Although the detectives’ procedure has been flawless and Johnson couldn’t have seen them, he must have had what amounts to a 6th sense that warns him of impending cops. He takes off down the narrow alley.

Hutch breaks cover, draws his gun. “Hold it, Johnson, POLICE!”

Hutch’s order has the expected effect on Johnson: none. The drug dealer tears down the alley, leaps up to the bottom of a ladder attached to the side of a building, and climbs it as if he’s had lots of practice.

Seeing Johnson run, Starsky dashes back to the Torino, brings it to life, guns down the street and around the corner.

Hutch sprints across the street, between trucks, causing horns to blare and fingers to be displayed in unsportsmanlike vehemence, but slowing Hutch down not one step. Holstering his gun as he reaches the bottom of the ladder, he springs up and climbs after Johnson, who has disappeared over the edge of the roof.

Johnson tops the ladder and jumps down to the roof, about 3 feet below the parapet. Running across between air conditioning towers and ventilator pipes, and all the other tripping-potential obstacles, he takes a heavy plastic-wrapped envelope out of a jacket pocket and stuffs it in one of the pipes, hardly losing a beat in his mad dash. Seconds later Hutch appears, hops down onto the roof and sprints after Johnson, looking as he runs for anything his quarry might have dropped . As he passes the pipe-of-interest it’s obvious that Johnson chose with care; the envelope isn’t visible. At least not to the pursuing detective. But it’s location is known because the entire scene has been viewed by a 10-year-old neighborhood boy, Randy Drake, from his personal retreat among the skylights, towers, guy wires and pipes of this rooftop. White, skinny, and shabbily dressed, he's more at home on these rooftops than he is on the streets below, where black is the more normal skin color. Watching the dealer and detective until they’ve climbed to another roof, Randy moves out of his concealment and over to the pipe. Making sure no one is around to see him, he reaches in and removes the envelope, stuffs it under his shirt and heads after the two men.

Johnson climbs a short ladder to a higher portion of roof, moves out of Hutch’s sight line so that he can stash another envelope in another vent pipe (he has obviously checked this entire location out previously and chosen his hidey-holes carefully). But this detour has cost him precious time and Hutch is close behind as he drops to a lower portion of roof and runs for the edge and another ladder. Only about a dozen feet from the parapet of this building, Hutch executes a perfect flying tackle and brings the drug dealer down in the middle of his attempt to extricate the final envelope from his inside jacket pocket. With fear-induced strength, Johnson struggles to his feet and manages to kick at Hutch, not connecting, just sending him back a pace. But, instead of following up his advantage, Johnson turns and runs toward the building’s edge. Unfortunately Johnson was never a track star and Hutch catches him by the back of the collar and stops him in mid-stride. He can’t, however, prevent Johnson from throwing the envelope out over the edge of the building.

Having gotten rid of the final piece of evidence against him, Johnson gives up rather rapidly, physically if not verbally. As Hutch pulls his hands behind his back and cuffs him, Johnson is all Offended Citizen.

“Who the hell are _you?_ ”

Catching his breath and pulling out his shield, Hutch is resigned to his captive’s behavior: he’s seen it before. “Police, Johnson, and you know it.”

Johnson shrugs, enjoying the hell out of Hutch’s apparent winded state. “Well, why didn’t you say so? How was I supposed to know you weren’t some street punk, trying to rip me off? Huh?

Hutch doesn’t even bother to comment but something catches the corner of his eye and, reaching for his gun, he spins to the top of the ladder just as Starsky’s head appears. The wary, almost fearful look in the curly-haired detective’s eyes is immediately replaced by relief and pleasure when he realizes that Hutch is okay, and firmly in control of the situation.

Starsky seems to be having some difficulty climbing the last few rungs of the ladder but Hutch, putting his shield away, holstering his gun and fastening the strap, doesn’t notice. “He threw an envelope over the edge, Starsk. You want to see if you can find it?”

Starsky finally gets his legs over the parapet of the roof and perches there, looking at Hutch and Johnson, studiously avoiding looking back down. With a face-splitting grin that would light up a dark room, Starsky displays the reason why he had such trouble making it up the final rungs of the ladder: his gun is in his left hand and the elusive envelope is clutched in his right. He can be excused a note of triumph in his voice: “Ya mean this?”

Hutch looks up and returns the grin. “Good work, buddy.” Turning back to Johnson, Hutch puts as much sympathy into his voice as possible when addressing this killer-of-children: “That was a nice try, Lloyd, but I think my partner just blew it for you.” To Starsky, as he turns and starts back the way he came: “Keep an eye on him will ya, Starsk? I didn’t see him try to stash anything else but I want to go back and check.”

“Take your time. I’ll just sit here and entertain Mr. Johnson with the incredible account of my Amazing Ladder Climb, during which I performed the near-impossible Mid-Air Envelope Catch.”

Johnson looks anything but pleased. Hutch tries to smother a smile as he begins to re-trace the chase. “You do that.”

*******

Later that afternoon, at the precinct house, the two detectives are in Captain Dobey’s office, Hutch scrunched down in the chair in front of Dobey’s desk, Starsky leaning against the water cooler in the corner, and both exhibiting definite signs of discomfort. However, instead of the blustering and chewing out that might be expected from such attitudes, Dobey is pacing around like a prideful bear, absolutely effusive in his praise (which the guys find almost as disconcerting as his anger). “I’ll tell you something, you guys really outdid yourselves this time. Not only do we have a confession from Mr. Lloyd Lester Johnson for the Sellers murder, but we take one of the biggest heroin dealers in the city off the streets! I don’t know who you found to set him up,” adding quickly before either Starsky or Hutch can comment, “and I don’t wanna know! But the Narco boys are absolutely green. I hear they’ve been trying to get something on Johnson for over a year. Only every time they stake him out, chase him, and bust him, he’s been able to stash the stuff somewhere, beforehand, so there’s never any evidence.”

He stops behind his desk, seemingly a little embarrassed by his enthusiasm, but not trying to take any of it back. The guys look at each other, silently asking, _Can we gracefully get outta here, now?_ The phone on Dobey’s desk rings on an inside line and Dobey answers it. “Dobey….. Yeah, they’re here. Hold on.” He holds the phone out to Hutch. “It’s the lab.”

Hutch sits up and Starsky comes around, sits down on the arm of his chair.

“Put it on the box, will you, Cap’n?” Hutch asks quietly, not knowing what they’re going to hear but not having a good feeling about it. Dobey punches the speaker button. “This is Hutch, Mike. What have you got?”

Over the speaker phone, Mike’s voice is a little distorted but everyone can hear the anxiety. “We’ve analyzed that stuff you guys brought in.”

Into the lengthening silence, Starsky finally leans forward and asks: “Yeah? So what is it? Milk sugar?”

“Not quite, Starsky. It’s heroin all right… and it’s a damn good thing you confiscated it. It’s over 10 percent pure.”

The boys and Dobey look at each other, stunned. Hutch finds his voice first: “Are you sure, Mike?!”

“Sure I’m sure. We tested it four times. Nobody down here’s ever seen street junk that pure.”

Starsky is staring at Dobey, knowing Hutch is already thinking the same thing he is, but Dobey might not be as aware of the situation as his partner. “Somebody’d have to step on it four or five times before the average junkie could handle it.”

Mike didn’t quite hear this. “What did you say, Starsky?”

“Nothin’, Mike.”

But Mike knows. “Yeah……. If that stuff had gotten into the hands of somebody who didn’t realize, or directly onto the street, there would have been dead junkies from here to next Friday and back.”

The room becomes silent, personal memories and ghosts all over the place. Hutch finally breaks it: “Okay, Mike, thanks.”

“Anytime, Hutch.”

Dobey punches off the speaker. Funny how ghosts can spoil a party.

*******

Somewhere across town, Randy Drake pounds up the front walk of his house, leaps up the steps and crashes through the door. Bounding up the stairs three at a time, he hangs a hard right at the top and charges into his room. Inside, his older brother, James, lying on his unmade bed, wearing rumpled sweats and dirty sneakers, with no regard for the mess he’s making on the bedding (that’s his mother’s problem after all), is listening to what is probably acid rock from his expensive earphones, attached to an equally expensive radio (both almost certainly stolen). He can’t hear his brother who, in his excitement, isn’t making much sense anyway.

“Jimmy! You’re not gonna believe it! They ran right in front of me, but neither of ‘em saw me, I’m sure of it. And the first guy put one of ‘em in that old pipe right in front of my hideout…. I pulled it out and then followed ‘em. They never saw me, I swear, but I got both of ‘em here.”

Finally realizing that James isn’t paying any attention to him, Randy pulls both missing envelopes out of his jacket and tosses them on the bed, next to his brother. James looks at them a moment, turns the radio off, and sheds the earphones. Reaching for the envelopes, he opens one and dumps out a dozen or so small, white, plastic-wrapped packets. He fingers the packets, dollar signs practically appearing in his eyes as he looks up at Randy’s foolishly grinning face.

*******

Downtown, an equally-grinning Starsky is holding court in the squad room before an audience of other detectives and civilian staff. The story’s all over the building by now but Starsky has embellished it so royally, and is having such fun telling it again, that everybody’s enjoying it. Hutch is sitting at his table, trying to smother a grin and concentrate on finishing the last of the day’s reports.

Starsky, perched on the back of his chair, is practically chewing the edges of the scenery, throwing dramatic gestures around like confetti. “So, there I was…. Clinging precariously to this rusty old ladder, _hundreds_ of feet above the hard ground… not knowing whether my partner was alive or dead… when this plastic envelope comes sailing out over the edge of the roof, directly above my head….” Here he pauses dramatically, then continues, enunciating every word: “Just imagine, if you can, the incredible agility, the manual dexterity, the lightning skill with which I --”

“Starsky.”

Momentarily halted, Starsky looks over at Hutch who has had the temerity to interrupt his presentation. “What?”

Hutch looks up from his reports and in an overly serious voice addresses his partner, and the rest of the captivated room: “As a reward for your admittedly wonderful performance this morning, you may have your choice of one of the following… The Nobel Prize for Acrobatics… The Academy Award for Over-Acting… ”And here he has to continue quickly in order to forestall Starsky’s mock-offended retort… “or… dinner at the Mexican restaurant of your choice.” Then again continuing quickly, “on one condition.”

Starsky cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, definitely wary.

“Shut up,” said as only Hutch can say it, with love.

Everybody in the squad room breaks up, including Starsky, who has probably already made his decision about his reward and doesn’t intend to let Hutch forget about it. As the other detectives and civilian staff exit the room or get back to work, the phone rings. One of the detectives answers it just as Dobey comes through the door from his office. Addressing the detective on the phone, Dobey asks, “Is that Smithers?” Then, off the detective’s nod, “Okay, I know about it. Tell him Starsky and Hutch are on their way.”

As he turns to the boys, all his prior good spirits have been replaced by a grimness that’s palpable. “You two better get down to Sixteenth and Chandler.”

Starsky and Hutch exchange a look while Dobey continues: “Yeah, that’s near where you busted Johnson. A kid is dead from what looks like an overdose.”

Starsky gets down off his perch as Hutch neatens the stack of reports, then both head for the door, silently exchanging, _Coincidence, partner? Not likely._

*******

The warehouse district doesn’t change much from day to day, except for the trucks moving in and out, and the occasional coagulation of law enforcement vehicles. This one’s a doozey: black and whites, the M.E.’s car, a coroner’s van, news vans, trucks and more trucks, and the Torino.

The prone body of a 14-15 year old black kid is being covered by a blanket. As two attendants place the body on a gurney and begin to wheel it out to the coroner’s van, the M.E. moves over to Starsky and Hutch.

“Whatever the kid shot was probably either cut with some kind of poison, or else just too pure… he never even got the needle out of his arm.”

Starsky and Hutch look at each other, _so much for coincidence_. But Hutch addresses the M.E. out loud: “Did he have any more stuff on him? Maybe an envelope full of packets?”

With a head shake, the M.E. dashes that hope. “Nope. Sorry. All we found was what was left of a regular ‘spoon.’” Looking quickly at his watch, he realizes he still has a lot of work to do. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll see that you get a full report as soon as I can.”

Starsky puts a hand lightly on the M.E.’s arm as he passes. “Yeah, thanks, Ray.” Then, tuning to Hutch, he voices both their fears. “Damn. That probably means that whoever found Johnson’s stash isn’t an addict himself… he’s just going to peddle it.”

Hutch is winding himself tighter and tighter. “And kill people.”

Starsky has seen the signs, and knows the best way to keep Hutch from assuming too much of the guilt is to concentrate on the case. He takes him by the arm and starts toward the Torino. “Come on, we need some help.”

*******

The Pits being their destination, Starsky wastes no time getting there. The joint is jumping and the loud music, laughter and raucous voices make it very difficult for the detectives to get Huggy Bear’s full attention. “Listen, fellas, I don’t know why you’re so up tight. This sounds to me like one sure way to cut down on the junkie population.”

Jiving with his customers, Huggy doesn’t realize the seriousness of the situation until Starsky physically grabs Huggy’s elbow and drags him to the far end of the bar where it’s marginally quieter. Hutch follows.

Off the looks on the guys’ faces, he suddenly does realize, and remembers, and settles down to listen.

Hutch’s patented tight control is well in evidence but the edges are beginning to fray a bit. “The guy who found the stuff evidently doesn’t know what he’s got. He’s selling it like it was regular two percent street grade.”

“So we need your help, Hug,” Starsky continues, trying to move things along and not let Hutch beat himself up any more. “We need you to get the word out. If anybody buys from a new contact, he’s got to take time to test the stuff first. Then, if it comes down too heavy, to let us know where he got it. Nothing more, understand? We’re not looking to make any drug busts.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but I think you’re kiddin’ yourselves.” Hutch doesn’t want to hear this but Huggy has a point he needs to make. “Junkies don’t trust anybody except another junkie. They ain’t gonna trust me. They sure as hell ain’t gonna trust you two.” When neither responds except by staring at him harder, he turns querulous. “How do you expect me to get anybody to listen?”

Starsky’s trying to be as patient as the circumstances allow but it’s beginning to test him, too. “Huggy, you know the street better than anybody else we can ask. If you can’t help us, nobody can.”

“Will you try?” The tone of Hutch’s voice is almost pleading.

Having been through as much as he has with these two, how can Huggy refuse? “Okay. Okay. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks, Hug” comes simultaneously from both detectives as they turn to leave.

But Huggy has sensed something more intense and personal than usual with Hutch and stops them. “Hey, Hutch… I don’t know what all’s going down but try not to take it so hard, okay?”

Hutch nods his thanks but says nothing, heads for the door. Starsky grips Huggy’s shoulder a moment, then follows his partner.

*******

In a non-descript alley somewhere in the warehouse district, James deals with a dirty, scruffy white kid, who looks to be about 13 years old.

“Look, kid, I told you, the price is twenty-five" James snarls. "Take it or leave it. I don’t give credit and I don’t give discounts.”

But the youngster is really strung out. “But I don’t got that much.”

“Too bad.”

As James turns away to leave, the boy grabs his jacket, nearly dislodging the shoebox he has gripped tightly under his arm. “Look, wait a minute. I got about nineteen bucks on me… and I’ll bring you the rest in an hour.” He frantically digs the money out of his pockets.

James eyes him suspiciously. “Where you gonna get the rest?”

“My old man’s radio. I’ll hock it. You’ll have the rest of your money in an hour… I promise! An hour…. Please!”

Nineteen dollars in the hand persuades James and he snatches the kid’s money, taking a glacine envelope out of the shoebox and handing it to the boy. “Remember, kid, an hour! I’ll be waiting.”

Already running down the alley, the kid hollers back over his shoulder: “Maybe less.”

As the boy disappears around a corner, James smiles to himself, looks around, finds a seat on a nearby crate and settles himself to wait. Randy comes from a shadowed doorway and stands beside his brother as James opens the shoebox and counts the remaining packets: 11.

*******

That night, Starsky is inexplicably unable to sleep. He prowls his apartment, lies in bed staring at the ceiling, drinks a glass of milk, watches an old movie on TV, even reads whole chapters of a serious-looking tome, but sleep simply won’t visit. A beer and numerous cups of coffee follow the milk but dawn finds him standing at the window contemplating why he’s having to face this sunrise; usually he sleeps like the proverbial baby and he doesn’t understand why this night should have been different. The phone rings at his right shoulder and he grabs it before it finishes the first ring. “Yeah.”

Hutch is more than a little surprised that Starsky is awake. “What are you doin’ up so early?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, think about it and tell me in the car. Dobey just called. They found another body. I’ll pick you up in ten.”

*******

As they head to the precinct in Hutch’s car, Hutch is pre-occupied, worried about this new death, but Starsky is trying to figure out his most unusual stunt of not sleeping. Finally Hutch remembers what his partner said. “Did you figure out why you were awake early”?

“Not really. You see, the thing is, I wasn’t exactly awake early, I just hadn’t been to sleep.”

“At all?”

“Nope.”

“That’s not like you, Starsk. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know… just couldn’t fall asleep. Tried everything I could think of, too. You remember that philosophy book you loaned me? It usually puts me right out.” He throws Hutch a _sorry_ ; but continues, dead serious: “I read six chapters. I even remember most of it.”

__

__

“It’s probably just this case. I didn’t sleep very well myself.”

“Yeah.” Then down to business. “What did Dobey say?”

“Not much. Just that it looked like victim number two.”

“Terrific.”

*******

The warehouse district should be getting pretty familiar. Hutch’s car arrives at the expected cluster of vehicles. The detectives get out and make their way through the officers and bystanders, to the group hovering around a body.

Ray, the M.E. from yesterday, looks like he hasn’t had much sleep either. He’s still making notes, hunkered down by the body, when Starsky approaches, squats next to him. Hutch hangs back, which is unusual, and not lost on Starsky.

“Don’t say it, Starsky. It’s not a good morning and we both know it.” Ray's tone was probably sharper than he intended but it’s too late to take it back.

Starsky understands. “I wasn’t going to say any such thing, Ray.”

“Sorry.”

Starsky shrugs off the apology, taking a closer look at the pitifully small body in front of him. “Another o.d.?”

“You got it. This one’s not more than thirteen.”

Starsky motions over to where Hutch is waiting. “You mind if we move over there for a minute?”

Ray puts his notes away and stands. “Sure. I’m finished here anyway.”

He signals for the attendants to come and take the body; then he and Starsky walk over to Hutch. Ray isn’t really insensitive but he’s just seen one too many dead bodies over the years and he’s overly tired; he doesn’t realize how his words will affect Hutch. Starsky does.

“If you guys don’t get off your butts and do something, fast, it looks like we could have an epidemic of this kind of thing.”

Starsky tries to keep things calm. “We know, Ray. We’re tryin’ __”

Ray interrupts, too frustrated and angry to pay attention to vibes. “That kid yesterday? We don’t even know who he was yet, but, somewhere, he and _this_ kid met the same guy… a guy who was evidently around when you two busted your dealer friend, but failed to find his stash.”

Suddenly, Starsky turns to Hutch, completely forgetting that he was beginning to get pissed at Ray’s attitude. “Not the same guy… the same kid… There was a kid on that roof.”

Ray is lost. “What are you talking about? What kid?”

Starsky pays him no attention, he’s focused on Hutch. “Think about it. A kid, small enough to be hiding up there on the roof, where you and Johnson’d never see him… But he sees you two…and he sees Johnson stash the envelopes… and he grabs ‘em and runs.”

Hutch is with him now. “Kids tend to sell to other kids.”

“Right. So, it’s not an adult we’re looking for at all… it’s some kid who hangs around these warehouses… and maybe knew both of the dead boys…”

“… and isn’t a junkie himself” Hutch finishes.

Ray is really left out in the cold but the guys don’t take time to explain. Starsky momentarily turns back to him as they start for the car. “Thanks, Ray.”

Then they’re gone, on the run, back to Hutch’s car. Ray wonders how the conversation got away from him.

*******

Inside Hutch’s car, on the way to The Pits, they’ve got a lead to work on now but Hutch is still finding ways to blame himself. “There were plenty of places on that roof where a kid could have been hiding. Why didn’t I think to look? Why did I just accept the fact that Johnson only had the one packet on him”?

“Hey, don’t do that to yourself… There’s no way anybody could have known a kid was going to be up there. And you did go back and check, remember?”

Hutch looks at him for a beat, then nods, but Starsky’s afraid he’s in for an up-hill fight against Hutch’s wrongly assumed guilt this time. So, first, he’ll try rationality. “Okay. We’ve got a place to start now. Let’s see if Huggy has any suggestions about where we go from here.”

*******

In The Pits, things are very different from the night before: no music, no booze, no regular customers. The only adults are Starsky, Hutch and Huggy. About a dozen or so kids, ranging in age from ten to sixteen, probably both sexes but it’s a little difficult to tell, “street types,” lounge on various pieces of furniture, in various stages of discomfort, distrust and plain suspicion. But they are all listening. Starsky has the floor and is doing his very best to be persuasive while remaining non-threatening. Not an easy task.

“Now, Hutch and I know that you don’t trust us… and that’s okay… But you trust each other and, this time, that’s _not_ okay.” The kids sneak looks at each other and squirm around a little before Starsky continues, still low and controlled. “Because there’s one of you out there… someone probably around your age… who’s dealing stuff that’ll kill you.”

Starsky waits a few moments, to let what he’s said sink in. Then Hutch picks it up, using the same tone. “We’re not here to hassle anybody, we just want to keep you alive. Please... won’t you help us do that?”

Putting a gentle hand on his partner’s shoulder, Starsky finally makes their pitch. “Talk to your friends. Talk to your connections. If you hear of _anything _… let us know.”__

____

__

After a few beats, the kids start to leave, singly and in small groups, none of them saying anything. Starsky and Hutch walk over to Huggy, who has not particularly enjoyed his role as reluctant den-mother.

Hutch is really depressed. “It didn’t do any good, did it, Hug?”

“Hey, don’t put yourselves down, fellas. At least they came… and they listened. Now just give ‘em a little time.”

The word hangs in the air like smoke. How much time do they have?

*******

In a possibly-recognizable alley, James and Randy are dealing to two slightly older kids, Willie and Arthur, both black; money changes hands; the two guys move away. James puts the money in his pocket, throws his arm around Randy’s shoulders and, with the ever-present shoebox under his arm, they move off in the opposite direction.

*******

Later that afternoon, at a worn out playground in a worn out recreation area, Starsky and Hutch are talking to a group of youths. Two or three of them were at Huggy’s but the rest are new faces. Nobody seems to be imparting any wildly important information but, at least they’re willing to talk now, and listen some more.

*******

When Hutch’s car drives up to Starsky’s apartment, it’s evident that Starsky’s paying for his sleepless night: he’s lethargic and stumbling as he heads for the stairs. Hutch leans across the seat and hollers to him: “Get some sleep, okay?”

Starsky turns back and makes an attempt at a smile and a wave. “Better believe it. Pick you up in the morning.”

“Right.”

Hutch drives off and Starsky continues the climb to his apartment.

*******

But sleep is not to be this night, either. Starsky is stretched out on the couch in front of the TV, listening to the introduction to the 4 a.m. movie, that immortal classic, “Fangs of the Living Dead.” Two beer cans are empty and crushed on the end table, and the book on philosophy is open across his chest, more than ¾ finished. And he’s wide awake.

*******

All Hutch has to do the next morning is take one look at him. “Again?”

“Yeah.”

“Got any idea what it’s all about? Was there anything special you couldn’t get out of your mind?”

With only a touch of irony, Starsky attempts a grin. “Besides this case?” Failing in the levity category, Starsky shrugs. “No, nothing.”

Not wanting to distract Starsky from watching the traffic, Hutch waits until they’re stopped at a light. “Listen, when we get to the station, I think you ought to stop at the Infirmary and get them to give you a couple of sleeping pills. Then go home and _use_ them.”

Starsky is, as expected, unwilling to even think about that. “What? And leave you with all these dead junkies on your hands? No way!”

“Starsk, you’re not gonna be any good to me if you’re asleep on your feet.”

“Will you forget it? I’ll be okay.”

This most unusual behavior from Starsky almost succeeds in getting Hutch’s mind off his own problems this morning. Almost.

*******

As the guys walk through the squad room door, Starsky goes directly to the coffee machine. But, before he can get a cup poured, Dobey comes through the door to his office, a piece of paper in his hand, bad news all over his face. “Don’t sit down.”

Hutch is very much afraid he already knows the answer but has to ask anyway: “Another one?”

Dobey doesn’t even have to answer. He hands the piece of paper to Hutch who looks at it for a moment, then at Starsky for a long moment, turns and heads toward the door. Starsky puts his cup down and goes after him.

*******

In a vacant lot near the warehouse district a different Medical Examiner stands out of the way with Starsky and Hutch as a boy’s body is covered, then put on a gurney and loaded into the waiting coroner’s van.

*******

Shortly afterward, at The Pits, Huggy is just starting to get the place ready to open for the day: chairs are still up on tables and Huggy is behind the bar replenishing stocks. Starsky and Hutch come in and head straight for the bar, men with a problem who want some answers. Huggy puts his hands up, as if to physically ward them off. “Hey, hey… take it easy….. I heard.”

Starsky takes point: “That’s three already. Hug.”

And Hutch is right behind: “What’s happened to that famous communications system of yours, huh? Why are these kids still _dying?_ ”

But Huggy is genuinely at a loss. “What can I tell you? I guess there’s always bound to be somebody who hasn’t heard… or doesn’t want to listen… or just plain needs it too bad.”

Suddenly, a common memory flashes between them and each one wishes he could forget it again.

*******

A little while later, at the same playground as before, Starsky and Hutch have a larger audience and maybe now a common goal with these scared kids.

*******

Later, in the Torino, heading back to the station, Starsky looks like the proverbial Death Warmed Over, but Hutch doesn’t look much better. After a few beats, Hutch breaks out of his morose contemplation and looks over at Starsky. “Hey, you want to get something to eat”?

“Sure.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

Shrug. “No.”

“Starsky, you hadn’t eaten all day… and you haven’t slept in two nights.”

A rhetorical statement if there ever was one. So, not waiting for an answer, Hutch keeps going. “Well, I’m hungry so what do you say we go to Tony’s Tacos and let ‘em burn holes in our stomach linings?”

Starsky almost smiles, calculates the shortest route to Tony’s and turns right at the next corner. But then he becomes mock-serious. “Wait a second… I hope you don’t think this constitutes ‘a dinner at the Mexican restaurant of your choice.’”

As Hutch is considering an appropriate response, the radio comes to life.

“Zebra three, zebra three, come in, please.”

The guys look at each as Hutch reaches for the mic.

*******

In Dobey’s office at the precinct, he’s at his desk, trying to find something new and hopeful in reports he’s read fifteen times already. In response to a knock on the door, he bellows: “Come in!”

Starsky sticks his head around the edge of the door. “You wanted to see us, Captain?”

“GET IN HERE!”

Starsky pushes the door open and holds it for Hutch, then follows him in, closes the door. Hutch doesn’t even look at Dobey, just walks slowly over and sits down in the usual chair, staring at his laced fingers. He looks like he’s taken a physical beating but Dobey doesn’t seem to notice. He directs his raised voice at Starsky who has deliberately placed himself in front of the desk, in case Dobey wants a target.

“Did you check on the newest one yet?”

“Yeah. Just now.”

“And?”

No way he can change things. “Same as the others, Cap’n. Another kid, about sixteen.”

Dobey’s head falls into his hands. “Oh, my God.”

After a beat, more to break the oppressive stillness than anything else, Starsky moves over to the water cooler, draws a cup of water, drinks it; draws another and takes it to Hutch who nods his thanks and drinks. Dobey finally looks up and takes his anger and frustration out on them. “And you got nothing? Four kids dead and you got _nothing?_ ”

He gets up abruptly, stalks to the water cooler and draws a cup. “You call yourselves detectives! You let Johnson ditch the stuff in the first place, and now you can’t even find the kid who’s peddling it!!”

He gulps the water, crushes the cup and moves back to the desk. For the first time he really looks at the guys. Starsky is standing next to Hutch’s chair, understanding Dobey’s tirade for what it is and not letting it get to him too badly. But Hutch is sunk in his chair, taking it hard. Suddenly, Dobey notices the state of near-exhaustion they’re both in and wishes he could take back some of his harshness. But his apology is only in the softened gruffness of his voice as he sits down again. “Get out of here. Go home. You both look terrible.”

Hutch doesn’t move right away, so Starsky goes over to the door, opens it and waits. Hutch finally pushes himself to his feet and walks out. Starsky and Dobey exchange one short look as he goes out and closes the door softly.

Outside Dobey’s office, the two detectives walk through the halls which are fairly devoid of activity. Starsky is trying to figure out how to derail this self-destructive self-condemnation of Hutch’s and finally decides the direct approach is the best. “Come on, partner, stop blaming yourself, will you?”

Hutch doesn’t really even react. They reach the elevators and by mutual, non-verbal decision, take the stairs instead. At the bottom they turn and head for the back entrance and the parking lot.

“I mean it, Hutch. You keep this up, you’re gonna make yourself sick again. You did everything you could, and you can’t hold yourself responsible.”

As they push through the doors and start down the steps and across the parking lot toward the Torino, Hutch finally looks at him but his blank expression doesn’t change. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Starsk, but it’s no good. I blew it when I let Johnson get away from me, and because of it, four kids are dead. And God knows how many more are going to die.”

Starsky has finally had enough; two nights without sleep and the worry over why, added to the awful strain and tensions of this case, push him to the breaking point. He grabs Hutch by the arm and spins him around to face him. “Will you knock it off? I’m close enough to goin’ crazy as it is, without having to worry about you and your self-immolation trip!”

Hutch is genuinely startled: he’s rarely seen Starsky truly angry and almost never at him. And, at the same time, he realizes that Starsky is right: his attitude has been self-destructive. But, in the few beats he stares into his partner’s challenging eyes, something else Starsky said registers. “What’s wrong?”

Suddenly, Starsky’s anger is gone; he drops his hand, shrugs, turns away and moves toward the car again. “I don’t know.”

Hutch goes with him. “What makes you think you’re going crazy?”

“That’s what if feels like.”

A small smile lights Hutch’s haggard face. “How would you know?”

Good question, which brings a half-hearted laugh and a deep, shuddering sigh from Starsky. “It’s scary.”

“I know. But just take it easy, okay? You’re not going crazy. You’ve just been without sleep too long.”

“I _know_ … and it doesn’t make any _sense_ … why _can’t_ I sleep?”

As they reach the Torino, and Starsky starts to open the driver’s side door, his knees suddenly buckle and he has to catch himself on the roof edge to keep from falling. Hutch comes quickly around the car and puts a supporting arm around him. “Hey, you okay?”

Starsky leans against the car, raises one badly shaking hand; looks at it. “I think you better drive.”

“Sure.”

Starsky digs his keys out and gives them to Hutch, moves carefully and slowly around to the passenger’s side, leaning on the car all the way, opens that door and slides onto the seat. Hutch gets in on the driver’s side, throws a worried look at his partner, starts the car and pulls out of the lot.

Inside the car, Starsky is almost curled in the corner of his seat, his head against the window, shaken and scared, but wide awake. “You keep the car tonight. Just drop me off.”

“Forget it! You’re staying at my place.”

“Hey, I don’t want to --” 

Hutch over rides him. “I said, forget it!”

Starsky’s too tired to argue. “Okay.”

Both guys’ expressions are versions of “what the hell is going on?” but Hutch’s is drawn with worry, Starsky’s with fear.

*******

At Hutch’s place, later that night, both Hutch’s car and the Torino are parked in front and all the windows are dark. Inside, there are several empty beer bottles on the coffee table next to an empty pizza box, and Hutch is asleep on the sofa. In the bedroom, Starsky is finally asleep but he’s very restless, obviously in the grip of a dream.

_Everything is indistinct; there are no defined lines, there are no specific colors, no particular time of day or night. Starsky sees his hands fighting, struggling with someone (the color, age, sex, clothing of this person are impossible to distinguish), somewhere (the location can’t be identified), for unknown reasons._

_There is a SOUND, unidentifiable, because of the dream distortion, but it builds and builds…_

_Suddenly, something or someone dashes across the side of his field of vision. He looks up as he draws his gun, seemingly agonizingly slowly. His right hand moves to lever a shell into the chamber but, for the first time, the Beretta is jammed, totally jammed._

_Another figure moves across his line of sight, presumably following the first and, either because the distortion is less or some other factor applies, he knows, from the color of hair and clothes, that the second figure is Hutch._

_Starsky, still struggling with his unknown companion, watches as Hutch runs out into some sort of street or alley and, suddenly, the increase in pitch and character of the SOUND makes itself terrifyingly identifiable. Starsky twists around and sees a mammoth cab-over truck bearing down on Hutch. On the passenger door he sees a logo, something that looks like a blue gryphon, and a few words, but they’re unreadable. What is undeniable is that the truck will be unable to stop or avoid the figure in its path._

“HUUUUTTCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…..”

_The shattering sound of the truck’s air horn and locked-up brakes mingles with Hutch’s death cry and the finality of the impact, to be over-ridden by the scream._

Starsky wakes to find himself sitting up in Hutch’s bed, his back against the headboard, with the echoes of his scream still chasing themselves around the room, his eyes filled with horror, his hands still ‘holding his jammed gun.’

Before the echoes have died, Hutch is there, flicks on the bedside lamp, sits on the side of the bed, grabs Starsky’s shoulders and gently shakes him back to reality. “Hey, easy Starsk……. You okay?”

“Uh… yeah…. Sure.”

“Nightmare?”

“Guess so.”

“What about”?

Starsky has no idea how to cope with what he’s just ‘seen’ and his immediate reaction is to deny it ever happened, even to himself, if he can. He slides away from Hutch’s hands and shuts him out. “I don’t remember.”

“Aw, come on, Starsk. It was evidently pretty bad, you have to remember something….. Was it about these kids?”

“No, I don’t think so….. I don’t remember!”

Hutch has no option at the moment but to back off. “Okay… I guess that happens. Maybe you’ll remember it in the morning.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Listen, you think you can get back to sleep? Or would you like something to drink? Maybe a glass of milk?… A beer?…. How about a good stiff shot?”

Starsky has already rolled over away from him and curled down under the covers like a small boy. “No, thanks. I’m already asleep.”

Hutch looks at him for a long moment, puzzled and worried; turns out the light, then moves back to the sofa. As Hutch settles himself again, Starsky rolls over onto his back and sits up, leaning against the brass headboard. The look of sheer horror is gone from his eyes but the blankness that replaces it is somehow worse.

*******

In Hutch’s car the following morning, Hutch appears to have gotten a little more sleep, Starsky got none; he’s holding himself together with an iron will. Hutch tries to wait him out but, when it becomes obvious that Starsky isn’t going to initiate the conversation, he has no choice. “You want to talk about it?”

“What?”

“Your dream.”

“I told you, I don’t remember it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It was nothing.”

Still in a calm voice but brooking no argument: “I don’t believe you, Starsk…. It was something… why won’t you tell me?” He knows Starsky is fighting him. “Did something happen to me?”

Starsky throws him a sharp look. “Why d’you say that?”

“Because you screamed my name.”

Starsky hadn’t realized that and it shakes him. “I did?”

“Yes……… you want to tell me about it?”

“No!”

“Why? Because you’re afraid if you say it out loud, it’ll come true?” Starsky can’t take his terrified eyes off his partner now but Hutch tries to keep things calm, keeps his voice gentle. “But, you know it doesn’t work that way…. What happened, Starsk? Tell me.”

Starsky looks away, knowing he’s going to have to put words to his nightmare and it’s going to be one of the most difficult things he’s ever done. “I don’t remember much of it…. I was struggling with somebody…. Somewhere… but everything was blurry, and I didn’t know where I was… I couldn’t see the face of whoever I was fighting with, and I don’t even know why we were fighting…. Then somebody ran past me…. Two somebodies… the second one was you.”

He pauses because he’s forgotten something in the dream; he feels it’s important, but he can’t remember what it is. Hutch waits patiently, knowing he can’t push any more; Starsky’s into it now, and he’ll tell him all of it when he’s ready. When he does finally continue, Starsky’s voice sounds like he’s pushing it out through barbed wire: “You ran out into a street, or someplace… and suddenly there was a truck… a huge truck… there was a symbol on the door, a bird, or an animal of some kind, blue…. And the truck couldn’t stop… and you couldn’t get out of the way… and I screamed… but… It hit you.” He takes a deep, tortured breath and looks at Hutch. “I saw you die.”

Hutch returns his look, steadily, for as long as he can, then turns back to watching the road; waits several moments then addresses his partner’s fear seriously. “Okay… so, now that you’ve said it out loud, the dream can’t come true.”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

Hutch puts on his lecturer’s voice, as if reciting: ‘If you tell someone your dreams, then they never come true.’ Every kid knows that.”

“This kid doesn’t know that!”

“Really? You mean your mother never told you that story when you had nightmares?”

“No…because the only nightmares I remember were about things that had already happened.”

Hutch knows. “Oh.”

Starsky thinks a long time. Then, finally: “You think it means anything?”

“I don’t know. But I do wish you’d try to stop worrying about it.” Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood: “Besides, it was probably just a reaction from drinking those beers on top of half an onion and anchovy pizza, after two nights without sleep.”

Starsky almost tries to smile but, as Hutch slows and stops at another red light, Starsky tenses and grips the dashboard as a large truck, bearing the same blue gryphon logo as his dream truck, crosses the intersection in front of them.

*******

When Hutch’s car pulls to a stop in front of the precinct, it’s more than likely that nothing more has been said by either detective. As Starsky opens the door and turns to get out, Hutch puts a hand gently on his arm and stops him. “Starsk…. Wait a second… will you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Go talk to Hank.”

It takes Starsky a moment to realize who Hutch means, but then, when it hits, he can’t believe it. “You’re the one who said I _wasn’t_ going crazy!”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. But maybe he can help, give you some kind of rational explanation for what’s been happening…. Well, it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

“I just don’t think I want to talk about it. You know?”

“Hey, I’m the one who got killed. Right?” Long look. “Just talk to him. Okay?”

“Okay.”

*******

The department’s ‘outside’ psychiatrist, Hank, knows the officers as well as any of them will let him, and admires many of them more than they realize. He’s standing at his bookcase, putting back a couple of volumes he probably took home last night. There’s a knock on the door and he turns around. “Come in, Detective Starsky.”

Starsky enters and closes the door behind him. He’s definitely uncomfortable, a fact that Hank cannot fail to notice but outwardly ignores. He approaches the uncertain detective, sticks out his hand and shakes the reluctantly proffered one firmly. His voice is cheerful and unforced. “Good morning, David. It’s been a long time. How’re you doing?”

“Fine, Doc. Just fine.”

Hank cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, wow. If you’re ‘just fine’ I think the rest of us are in a whole lot of trouble.”

“Okay, maybe not so fine.”

Hank gestures to one of the guest chairs as he makes his way behind his desk. “You said on the phone you wanted to talk to me… I take it then that it’s personal, and not department related?”

He sits down as Starsky sits stiffly in the indicated chair. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“Does it have something to do with Detective Hutchinson?”

“Yeah…. Sort of.”

Like pulling teeth. “Okay…… talk to me.”

*******

After the dreaded recitation, Starsky is a little more relaxed but still uncomfortable in the chair. Hank is pensive but not visibly concerned.

“I’ve forgotten something… it’s important… but I don’t know what it is.”

“Something that happened? Or something you saw, or maybe heard?”

Starsky closes his eyes in concentration but finally shakes his head. “I just can’t remember.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. It’ll come back to you.”

Hank gets up and goes to the bookcase, selects a volume and takes it over to Starsky, gives it to him then goes back behind his desk. 

Starsky reads the front warily. “What’s this?”

“It’s a relatively new book by a Boston psychologist. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Starsky reads the title out loud: “‘Dream’ Can Be A Twelve-Letter Word.”

Hank is almost absentmindedly writing something on his legal pad. “Have you ever heard the term ‘precognition’?

Starsky’s still looking at the book in his hands. “Uh, yeah. But I don’t believe in it.”

“I’m not saying you should, but I’d like you to read the book. There’s been an awful lot of scientific research recently in all areas of para-normality, and one of the most fascinating fields has turned out to be ‘precognition,’ or dream prediction.”

Unfortunately, Starsky jumps to an ugly conclusion. “Are you telling me that what I dreamed is actually going to _happen_?”

“ _No!_ I’m not telling you that at all. What I am saying is that there have been certain cases when people _have_ had precognitive dreams, which enabled them to avert some calamity.”

Starsky tries his best to absorb everything he’s heard, then softly asks: “When?”

“‘When’ what?”

“If it does happen, this dream… when? How soon?”

“I don’t know… nobody does. But, in most documented cases, within forty-eight hours.”

Starsky doesn’t know whether this reassures him or terrifies him more. “What am I supposed to do?”

“The first, and most important thing, is to _stop worrying about it_. It’s happened and it either means something or it doesn’t. And, either way, worrying yourself sick about it is the worst thing you could do.”

Hank thinks a moment about the rest of what he needs Starsky to hear. “I’m not saying ‘forget it,’ because that would be impossible… but I am saying ‘don’t let it possess you.’ Just read the book, Dave. See what kind of experiences other people have had and how they’ve handled them. You’re not going crazy. Believe me.”

Starsky looks at Hank for a moment, takes a deep breath, gets up and reaches across the desk to shake his hand; holds up the book. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Forget it. Just bring it back. It’s my only copy.”

As the detective leaves his office, Hank looks down at the word he has written: “precognition?????”

*******

As Starsky comes out of Hank’s office and just stands there with his left hand on the doorknob, his right holding the book, thinking about what he’s been told, Hutch gets up from the bench where he’s been patiently waiting, crosses to him and they start to walk down the hall together. Hutch studies his partner openly. Starsky hasn’t met his eyes yet but does seem much calmer and back in control. Finally, Hutch is forced to ask. “Well?… Aren’t you going to tell me what he said?”

Starsky stops and finally looks as him, ‘shocked.’ “I can’t do that!… Don’t you know that whatever is discussed between a guy and his psychiatrist is personal, confidential and privileged?”

Just the fact that Starsky’s willing to put him on a little bit makes Hutch feel somewhat easier about the whole situation. But, then again, he really does want to know. “You gotta be kidding…”

“Yeah, I’m kidding, but let me read this book first, okay? Besides… It’s my aberration.”

That one stops Hutch in his tracks, as Starsky knew it would. Starsky continues on down the hall as Hutch mutters to himself “Is it?”

*******

Shortly thereafter, at the precinct, Starsky walks into the squad room reading the dust jacket of his book, with Hutch right behind. Dobey is leaning over one of the other detective’s desk, straightens up when he sees them. “Where have you two been?”

Hutch wants to forestall any displays of temper, on anybody’s part and just acts as if everything is ‘normal.’ “We had an appointment, Cap’n. What do you need?”

“Not me. Huggy Bear’s been trying to reach you. He says you should get over to his place right away. Says he’s got somebody who wants to talk to you.”

They’re already on their way out and Starsky throws a “Thanks, Cap’n” over his shoulder.

*******

The Pits is almost deserted, except for the foursome in the back corner. Starsky, Hutch and Huggy have been joined by Arthur, who has spent thirty-nine of the last forty-two hours trying to die. “Sick, man… I ain’t never been so sick in my whole life. And I didn’t even shoot much… I remembered hearin’ somebody talk about some bad stuff, so I told Willie we shouldn’t even talk to no honky kid we never dealt with before… but Willie was hurtin’… man, he needed it bad… so we bought two ‘spoons.’” He looks at Starsky. “You sayin’ Willie’s dead?”

“Yesterday. They found his body in that vacant lot on Calvert Street.”

Hutch has heard something and pushes a little. “Arthur… what ‘honkey kid’? Who did you and Willie buy from?”

“First name’s Jim, I think… don’t know his last name.” Then Arthur remembers something else. “Wait a minute. He had his kid brother with him… name’s Randy, I think.”

“Do you have any idea where they live?”

“I think I seen ‘em hangin’ around that park, over on Addison. Maybe they live around there.”

Starsky looks at Hutch. “You think maybe Perkowitz would know who they are?”

Hutch is already getting to his feet. “One way to find out.” He heads for the phone behind the bar. Huggy tries to change the subject to something less oppressive. “Starsky, my man, I don’t mean to offend, but you appear to have been ignoring your beauty sleep of late. Now, Arthur here has an excuse for his less-than-peak physical condition, but you… What’s the matter, Starsky? Your water bed spring a leak?”

“Huggy, if I order a beer for each of us, and a soda for Arthur, would you very quietly go away and get them?”

“With pleasure, Starsky. With pleasure!”

With a big ‘eager to please’ grin, Huggy gets up and moves over to the bar, begins to set out a tray, three beers, a can of soda, four glasses, etc., as Hutch hangs up the phone and goes back to the booth. “Drake. They live at 4319 Cramer. A block and a half from that park.”

Arthur looks pleased that he’s been able to help. Starsky gets up and joins Hutch in heading for the front door just as Huggy is coming back with the beers. “Hey! What about your beer?”

Neither of the detectives turns around but Starsky does throw a “On the tab, Hug” back over his shoulder. Huggy stands there, looking pissed. He should know better than to open them first.

*******

At the Drake house, Hutch’s car comes around the far corner, fast but silent. With the exception of two young children throwing an old rubber ball against the side of a house across the street, the block is deserted. Hutch stops the car in front of the Drake house; he and Starsky jump out and sprint to the front door. Hutch knocks hard and repeatedly but there’s no response. They try looking in the front windows but can’t see anything of importance and, without warrants, they’re severely limited in how far they can go.

Starsky turns, evidently heading for the back of the house, but Hutch catches his arm, pointing across the street to the two kids, who have stopped their game and are watching them. The detectives hurry over to the youngsters. Quickly, briefly, they explain who they are, who they’re looking for, and why. The older child turns and points out across the intervening houses and down the hill to the well-known warehouse district.

*******

Hutch’s car cruises slowly through the streets and alleys of the part of town they hope they never have to see again; truck traffic is heavy, as usual, and pedestrians crowd the sidewalks. Inside the car, the detectives each study his own side of the street, missing nothing, but not seeing the two boys they’re looking for.

Starsky’s getting frustrated. “It’s too busy… too many people around.”

“What about where we busted Johnson? There was hardly any traffic over there.”

“Go!”

Hutch checks the traffic in his rear-view mirror; makes a left at the next corner.

*******

In an alley in the less-trafficked part of the district, James has just sold another packet, this time to an older boy, Jack. James holds out the packet, waiting for the money. Jack pulls cash from his pocket but holds out his hand for the dope. James shakes his head. “Gimme the money first.”

Jack puts the money on the crate next to him but keeps his hand on top of it. “There it is…. Now hand it over.”

James does so, dubiously; reaches for the money. But Jack keeps his hand on top of it. “Uh, uh…. Not yet.” He puts the glacine envelope on the crate carefully, and begins to open it.

“What’r’ya doin’?”

“Testin’ it.”

“What for? It’s good stuff!”

“Maybe too good?”

“What are you talkin’ about?!”

“Kids been dyin’ ‘round here, man! Ain’t you heard?! I just don’t wanna be the next one, that’s all. No offense.”

He wets the tip of one finger and dips it in the powder, puts the finger tip up under his top lip against his gum, holding it there for a moment. Suddenly, his eyes go wide and he jerks his hand away from the stinging, burning sensation in his mouth. James is startled. But, instead of being angry, Jack looks kind of pleased; folds the envelope closed carefully and pushes the money toward James. “Go ahead, kid. Money’s all yours.”

James grabs it and starts to run toward Randy, who is waiting for him. Jack’s shout stops him. “Hey, kid!”

James stops, scared, turns back.

“You got any more of this stuff?”

James takes a tentative step back. “Why?”

“Oh, nothin’ much… I just thought I’d take it all off your hands.”

James make a quick decision. “No. That was the last of it. It’s all gone.”

“Okay, if you say so. This one little envelope will last me a while anyway.” He wait’s a beat while James starts to turn away again, then continues, a harder tone in his voice. “But I’ll give you some good advice, kid. Dump the rest of it, fast… The cops are lookin’ for you.”

With that, he turns and walks away. Shaken, James moves over to Randy; they turn and walk down the alley toward the street. Randy’s worried about his brother’s attitude. “What’s wrong, Jim? What’d he say?”

“Nothin’! Just shut up and let me think.”

At the end of the alley, about 30 feet in front of them, Hutch’s car crosses slowly. It stops. James freezes then jumps back into the shadow of some crates, pulling Randy with him. After a few moments, when the car doesn’t move, James panics, grabs the shoebox Randy’s been clutching, and they both race down the alley, away from the mud-brown car.

Starsky jumps out of the passenger’s side of the car as Hutch accelerates in the direction they were going, with a “Meet you on the other side” flung behind.

James and Randy reach a cross street, with Starsky not very far behind. James races across the deserted street and into the alley on the opposite side. He shoves Randy away from him, and his younger brother does as they have probably often practiced: he turns left, running down the middle of the street. Starsky goes after James, the one with the shoebox, just as Hutch’s car screeches around the far corner, cutting Randy off. But these buildings and streets and alleys are Randy’s playground, he knows every foot of them. As soon as Hutch’s car appears in front of him, he ducks right, into a narrow pedestrian alley and disappears. Hutch’s car screeches to a stop at the mouth of the very narrow alley and, realizing the car won’t fit, Hutch abandons it and chases after him.

James is having no luck out-running Starsky and, when he has to dodge a car as he runs into the middle of a main street, Starsky catches him, grabbing him by the back of the collar, and pulls him to a stop on the sidewalk. Starsky, breathing hard, has trouble holding onto the kid while reaching for his shield folder. “Hold it, kid… police.”

But James’ scared, guilty reaction is to fight, kicking and screaming and flailing his arms. The shoebox goes flying, to land against a wall, spilling its contents. “Let go o’ me! I ain’t done nothin’! You got no right to chase me like that! Leave me alone!”

Starsky tries his best to contain this whirlwind but in his present physical condition it’s not going to be easy.

Hutch chases Randy through the alley and around a corner, into the street/alley entrance where Starsky and James are struggling.

Having finally given up on the idea of reasoning with James, Starsky falls to the ground, taking the kid down with him. But the terrified James still thrashes, making it extremely difficult for Starsky to get him under control so that he can put the handcuffs on. He doesn’t yet seem to realize what’s happening.

Suddenly, Randy dashes across the street in front of him as he manages to get the second handcuff locked, casts a helpless look at his brother but keeps going. Under ordinary circumstances, Starsky would never reach for his gun, but the circumstances are far from ordinary and, almost before he realizes it, the automatic is in his hands. His right hand moves to lever a shell into the chamber but, for the first time, the Beretta is jammed. Totally jammed.

As Starsky instantly realizes this is his ‘dream’ he understands everything that’s happened, and everything that _will_ happen, unless…

Hutch emerges from the mouth of the alley Randy came from, sees that Starsky has James under control, and immediately starts across the street, following Randy.

Starsky, without the breath to shout a warning, launches himself off James’ handcuffed form, sprints into the street and tackles Hutch, carrying him out of the traffic lanes and onto the sidewalk, barely inches from the wheels of the huge truck which skids past, brakes locked up, tires turning hundreds of dollars worth of rubber into smoke, horn blaring. Hutch’s startled expression turns knowing, then grateful, as he looks at the curly head of the exhausted partner in his arms.

After a few long moments, Starsky, not looking at Hutch, disentangles himself, climbs to his feet, goes back across the street to the wall behind James, who is trying to sit up, kneels down and begins to gather the scattered envelopes back into the shoebox.

Randy comes out of his alley, walks slowly over to his brother and sits down next to him.

Across the street, Hutch rolls into a sitting position, crosses his ankles and just sits, Indian fashion, watching Starsky methodically do his cop-thing, and contemplates being alive.

*******

Later that day, Hank is in his office, doing the endless paperwork his job requires when there is a knock on his door. “Come in.” The door opens and Starsky sticks his head around. Hank looks up, a smile lighting his face as he feels the relaxed attitude Starsky exudes. “Hi, Dave. Come on in.”

Starsky pushes the door open all the way, walks across to the desk, carrying the loaned book. Hutch appears in the doorway, leans casually against the jamb, his expression nearly unreadable. Starsky holds the book up with a small flourish, lays it on the desk. “Good book, Doc… I didn‘t actually get a chance to read it but, thanks for all your help. We really appreciate it.”

He turns and goes back to the door, catching Hank so surprised he barely manages to find his voice. “Hey, Dave… Uh… What happened?”

Starsky stops in the doorway but doesn’t look back at Hank; he looks at Hutch. A long look; this might even be the first time they’ve had a chance to ‘talk’ about it themselves. Hutch finally looks at Hank. “Nothin’, Hank…. Nothing at all.”

As the two detectives turn and leave, closing the door softly, Hank is left with the certainty that there’s a great deal more to the story but that he’ll probably never know.

END


End file.
